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Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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hardly think FaceTube—whatever that is—would improve my quality
of life.”
Molly shakes her head. “It’s Face book . And YouTube.”
“Whatever!” Vivian says breezily. “I don’t care. I like my quiet life.”
“But there’s a balance. Honestly, I don’t know how you can just exist in this—bubble.”
Vivian smiles. “You don’t have trouble speaking your mind, do you?”
So she’s been told. “Why did you keep this coat, if you hated it?” Molly asks, changing
the subject.
Vivian picks it up and holds it out in front of her. “That’s a very good question.”
“So should we put it in the Goodwill pile?”
Folding the coat in her lap, Vivian says, “Ah . . . maybe. Let’s see what else is
in this box.”
The Milwaukee Train, 1929
I sleep badly the last night on the train. Carmine is up several times in the night, irritable and fidgety, and though I try to soothe him, he cries fitfully for
a long time, disturbing the children around us. As dawn emerges in streaks of yellow,
he finally falls asleep, his head on Dutchy’s curled leg and his feet in my lap. I
am wide-awake, so filled with nervous energy that I can feel the blood pumping through
my heart.
I’ve been wearing my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but now I untie the old
ribbon and let it fall to my shoulders, combing through it with my fingers and smoothing
the tendrils around my face. I pull it back as tightly as I can.
Turning, I catch Dutchy looking at me.
“Your hair is pretty.” I squint at him in the gloom to see if he’s teasing, and he
looks back at me sleepily.
“That’s not what you said a few days ago.”
“I said you’ll have a hard time.”
I want to push away both his kindness and his honesty.
“Can’t help what you are, can you,” he says.
I crane my neck to see if Mrs. Scatcherd might have heard us, but there’s no movement
up front.
“Let’s make a promise,” he says. “To find each other.”
“How can we? We’ll probably end up in different places.”
“I know.”
“And my name will be changed.”
“Mine too, maybe. But we can try.”
Carmine flops over, tucking his legs beneath him and stretching his arms, and both
of us shift to accommodate him.
“Do you believe in fate?” I ask.
“What’s that again?”
“That everything is decided. You’re just—you know—living it out.”
“God has it all planned in advance.”
I nod.
“I dunno. I don’t like the plan much so far.”
“Me either.”
We both laugh.
“Mrs. Scatcherd says we should make a clean slate,” I say. “Let go of the past.”
“I can let go of the past, no problem.” He picks up the wool blanket that has fallen
to the floor and tucks it around the lump of Carmine’s body, covering the parts that
are exposed. “But I don’t want to forget everything.”
O UTSIDE THE WINDOW I SEE THREE SETS OF TRACKS PARALLELING the one we are on, brown and silver, and beyond them broad flat fields of furrowed
soil. The sky is clear and blue. The train car smells of diaper rags and sweat and
sour milk.
At the front of the car Mrs. Scatcherd stands up, bends down to confer with Mr. Curran,
and stands up again. She is wearing her black bonnet.
“All right, children. Wake up!” she says, looking around, clapping her hands several
times. Her eyeglasses glint in the morning light.
Around me I hear small grunts and sighs as those lucky enough to have slept stretch
out their cramped limbs.
“It is time to make yourselves presentable. Each of you has a change of clothing in
your suitcase, which as you know is on the rack overhead. Big ones, please assist
the little ones. I cannot stress enough how important it is to make a good first impression.
Clean faces, combed hair, shirts tucked in. Bright eyes and smiles. You will not fidget
or touch your face. And you will say what, Rebecca?”
We’re familiar with the script: “Please and thank you,” Rebecca
of life.”
Molly shakes her head. “It’s Face book . And YouTube.”
“Whatever!” Vivian says breezily. “I don’t care. I like my quiet life.”
“But there’s a balance. Honestly, I don’t know how you can just exist in this—bubble.”
Vivian smiles. “You don’t have trouble speaking your mind, do you?”
So she’s been told. “Why did you keep this coat, if you hated it?” Molly asks, changing
the subject.
Vivian picks it up and holds it out in front of her. “That’s a very good question.”
“So should we put it in the Goodwill pile?”
Folding the coat in her lap, Vivian says, “Ah . . . maybe. Let’s see what else is
in this box.”
The Milwaukee Train, 1929
I sleep badly the last night on the train. Carmine is up several times in the night, irritable and fidgety, and though I try to soothe him, he cries fitfully for
a long time, disturbing the children around us. As dawn emerges in streaks of yellow,
he finally falls asleep, his head on Dutchy’s curled leg and his feet in my lap. I
am wide-awake, so filled with nervous energy that I can feel the blood pumping through
my heart.
I’ve been wearing my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but now I untie the old
ribbon and let it fall to my shoulders, combing through it with my fingers and smoothing
the tendrils around my face. I pull it back as tightly as I can.
Turning, I catch Dutchy looking at me.
“Your hair is pretty.” I squint at him in the gloom to see if he’s teasing, and he
looks back at me sleepily.
“That’s not what you said a few days ago.”
“I said you’ll have a hard time.”
I want to push away both his kindness and his honesty.
“Can’t help what you are, can you,” he says.
I crane my neck to see if Mrs. Scatcherd might have heard us, but there’s no movement
up front.
“Let’s make a promise,” he says. “To find each other.”
“How can we? We’ll probably end up in different places.”
“I know.”
“And my name will be changed.”
“Mine too, maybe. But we can try.”
Carmine flops over, tucking his legs beneath him and stretching his arms, and both
of us shift to accommodate him.
“Do you believe in fate?” I ask.
“What’s that again?”
“That everything is decided. You’re just—you know—living it out.”
“God has it all planned in advance.”
I nod.
“I dunno. I don’t like the plan much so far.”
“Me either.”
We both laugh.
“Mrs. Scatcherd says we should make a clean slate,” I say. “Let go of the past.”
“I can let go of the past, no problem.” He picks up the wool blanket that has fallen
to the floor and tucks it around the lump of Carmine’s body, covering the parts that
are exposed. “But I don’t want to forget everything.”
O UTSIDE THE WINDOW I SEE THREE SETS OF TRACKS PARALLELING the one we are on, brown and silver, and beyond them broad flat fields of furrowed
soil. The sky is clear and blue. The train car smells of diaper rags and sweat and
sour milk.
At the front of the car Mrs. Scatcherd stands up, bends down to confer with Mr. Curran,
and stands up again. She is wearing her black bonnet.
“All right, children. Wake up!” she says, looking around, clapping her hands several
times. Her eyeglasses glint in the morning light.
Around me I hear small grunts and sighs as those lucky enough to have slept stretch
out their cramped limbs.
“It is time to make yourselves presentable. Each of you has a change of clothing in
your suitcase, which as you know is on the rack overhead. Big ones, please assist
the little ones. I cannot stress enough how important it is to make a good first impression.
Clean faces, combed hair, shirts tucked in. Bright eyes and smiles. You will not fidget
or touch your face. And you will say what, Rebecca?”
We’re familiar with the script: “Please and thank you,” Rebecca
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